A Ghost of a Whisper
by Skylar Felton
Summary: All good things come to an end. Great things come to an endless loss. One-post ficlet. [HPDM Slash]


** A Ghost of a Whisper**

My mother used to tell me that everything would be okay. Every night when she used to tuck me into bed. 'Sleep well, mon chér,' she'd say. 'All will be well.'

Every child thinks their parents have all the answers. Turns out, every child is wrong.

Because all is not well. The world is not warm, and I do not sleep well. Not ever. Every day is as cold as the day before; its icy touch permeating my soul in an ironic reminder of deeds long done.

I remember better times. I remember the feel of your fingertips on my cheek, and feeling their caress as you would softly trace the outline of my jaw. Your eyes were brilliant in their sparkling emerald glory, and many a time I would fall into their deep confines, willingly, completely. Your lashes would gently brush my brow as you held me close, and I took comfort in your warm lingering presence as your breath glazed my skin. The moonlight of the nights we shared cradled your face in its silver glow, and I'd watch you in silence as we held each other. You looked like you had been fashioned from the untarnished core of the moon itself. Your dark lashes drooped down to touch your cheek with every lidded blink, slow in its refined perfection. Your eyes would momentarily hide, but every time I saw them reappear to gaze at me relaxedly, their brilliance accentuated by the touch of the moon, my heart would swell so much for you I could hardly breathe. Your brows were sculpted ebony, framing your eyes as a painting of perfection. The hair that frustrates you so much does no such thing for me. Its haphazard manner of arrangement I always found endearing, and as we lay in the glow of moonlight it would throw a subtle curtain of light shadow over your brow. I would run my fingers through it then, and feel its softness between my fingers. My interference made no improvement in its appearance, and I loved it for that.

Your skin was so smooth, I was almost afraid to touch it lest I mar its beauty. But touch it I did, and I savoured every moment. I laid my hand gently where your neck met your shoulder, and savoured the feeling of your warmth as my fingers slowly travelled upward and I felt the soft and tender pulse just behind your ear, under my touch. I gazed into your hypnotic eyes that were looking only at me, as I cradled your cheek in my palm. My thumb tentatively stroked your face, down your cheek, until it reached your lips. I dropped my gaze then. Dropped it to look at your perfect mouth, its colour thrown into sharp relief under the moon. I gently traced the soft pink skin under my thumb, my breath quivering as I'd remember what your kiss felt like. You startled me once, when your tongue quickly darted out to touch my thumb, making me gasp, before retreating back into the warmth of your mouth. Your eyes held an extra twinkle then, and you looked at me in undisguised infatuated amusement before leaning over to give me the gift of the touch of your lips once again.

Then I'd forget all about the moon, and even about the world. All I would know would be touch of your lips as they lovingly grazed mine with their aching touch. Each kiss was a reaffirmation of a boundless affection, and their warmth and gentle caress would take me to a place I never knew existed; to a place where all that mattered was you and me, all I felt was your endless touch, and all I heard was your whisper ghosting to my ear with its tender gifts. Those nights would last forever.

But forever wasn't long enough. Now all I am is cold, all I am is empty, and all I am is alone. Those nights remain only a memory I will achingly recall with a painful absence.

I hate the one who did this. The one who spoke the words to your enemies that led to your capture; to your destruction. In only a moment, our world was turned to black as they took you away; took you to Voldemort. They knew how to find you, and how to weaken you. And finally, how to destroy you.

Now there is nothing left. Not a touch, not a whisper, not a care.

I hate the one who did this. The one who took what was warm, right, and beautiful, and sacrificed it for a meaningless reward of money and prestige.

Now I no longer know the warm feeling of your raven hair falling between my fingers. I only know the cold touch of the coins as they slip past my fingers into the empty abyss of the lake where I'll never see them again; where I can pretend I never knew of them.

I hate myself for doing this.


End file.
